Cookie Cutter
by Chibi Neko-Chan2
Summary: Mitchie Torres, cutter stationed at Lakeview Crisis Center. Shane Gray, bad boy of Connect 3 who is sent to help Mitchie in order to get good PR. What happens when his mental case starts cutting her way into his heart? Dark Smitchie.
1. A New Friend

Summary: Mitchie Torres, cutter stationed at Lakeview Crisis Center. Shane Gray, bad boy of Connect 3 who is sent to help Mitchie to get good PR. What happens when his mental case starts cutting her way into his heart? Dark Smitchie.

Cookie-Cutter

By: Chibi Neko-Chan2

Beta- Reader: sandy2x400

"Talking"

_**Emphasis**_

_Writing_

XXXXX- Scene Change

(_Mitchie_)

The people around here call me "Cookie-Cutter". I personally think it is just a bit demented and twisted that I like the given nickname. It did, however, make sense that the name sends an excited chill down my spine. I am one psychotic individual, after all.

Riding the lines of "desperate for attention" and "insane" is the reason why I'm trapped here in this crisis center in the first place. I live here. I breathe here, which was pretty unfortunate since I rather drop dead than be stuck in this stoic place for one more second. I hated this center ever since my so-called 'parents' dropped me off. Their reason for abandoning me here was so I could get _better._ I knew it was a load of bull as soon as left my mother's painted lips. Those two just wanted me off their hands in order to keep me from destroying their good reputation.

So here I am.

Mitchie Torres aka Cookie-Cutter Extraordinaire.

Cookie-cutter. The sweet word tingles on the end of my tongue, but I do not spit it out. You see, I do not speak much anymore. I place my cold hand on my cheek, trying to recall the last time I talked. It was the day my parents dropped me off, now a month and a half ago, and it was right after mom told me that I really was not going to pay a surprise visit to my grandmother in Michigan – that was the lie they used to explain the packed luggage in the back of the car – but that I would be "seeking help" from professionals instead. I stared in disbelief at my mother, betrayal and hurt coursing through my veins.

The last thing I said to my parents was not an 'I love you' or an 'okay.' It was not even a statement. It was a question. I remember my voice being breathless and the hot tears that threatened to spill from my eye sockets as the question left my mouth.

"How could you do this to me?"

That was the last thing I said to my parents, and it was the last thing I have said to anyone. You know, maybe I am truly insane. I've had more conversations with myself in this past month and a half than with anyone else.

Cookie-Cutter Torres.

No, I was not given the nickname because I enjoyed cutting cookie dough into endearing shapes like stars or balloons. I'm sixteen, not five. The nickname refers to my wrists. I was never much of a baker, but I am an artist with the razor. Cutting is my art.

I stare at the white walls that imprison me. I don't hate white, but I am not a fan of it. I prefer the color black. I also like red. I bit down on my lip when I felt the urge to glance down at the crimson cuts on my pale wrist.

It was a tendency of mine to accept things that are rejected by everyone else; an example of this being the love for my razor. Everyone else hates that I answers the razor's bitter call, but I love wielding the small silver object in my hands. It is almost impossible to describe the relief it brought when it makes contact with my skin. It was like taking a drug or quenching a thirst for ice-cold water after a hot day.

Cutting was my drug; it is what I craved for.

This might come off as a surprise, but I haven't always been a cutter. The old Mitchie Torres would have never resorted to self-mutilation. Cheery, bright smile Mitchie would have talked to her two closest friends (her only friends) about her problems. Mary and Sierra would have helped her through it. Things changed, however, when high school approached.

I was fourteen and naïve. Mary, who had a dream to dance, moved to Manhattan with her family. She planned to fulfill her dream of attending Manhattan School of Performing Arts when her senior year rolled around. Then, Sierra left me stranded to be part of the school's academic team. Although she asked me to join the scholarly team with her in the beginning, I knew already that I wasn't as smart as Sierra and that I wouldn't fit in. As soon as Sierra made her presence noticed with the academic team, she forgot about her old best friend. I was just as invisible to her as I was with the rest of the student body.

I didn't make other friends. I was shy and wanted my classmates to approach me. They never did. So I sat alone in all my classes and I skipped lunch - to avoid eating alone - and went to the music room instead. Although, being lonely did have its perks. My grades improved and even though my classmates didn't bother talking to me, my teachers did. My music teacher, my favorite teacher, thought I had talent and made me practice piano when I visited her during my lunch hour. Mrs. Gonzalez soon had me playing in front of the other students during class as they simply stood up and sang.

My _star treatment_ didn't sit well with the other students; especially one named Tess Tyler. Ms. Popularity herself had to be number one at everything. She used her mother's fame, TJ Tyler, to persuade teachers to favor her. Mrs. Gonzalez was one of the only teachers who didn't buy into Tess manipulation game, which was probably another reason why I like Mrs. Gonzalez so much. Tess, however, would complain to the school board and Mrs. Gonzalez was often forced to give Tess most of the solo parts in our competitions.

Tess's hatred for me grew when Mrs. Gonzalez offered me the main solo in one of her competitions. Although I had a passion for music, I declined the offer. I was too shy and wanted to avoid conflict. Although being invisible wasn't exactly fun, it was better than being hated.

That didn't stop Tess. She confronted me after school one day. I had gotten a Sprite out of one of the school's cola machines and turned to see her and half the student body. Tess had the fakest smile on her face when she greeted me.

"Hello _Mitchie_."

"Hi Tess," I responded meekly, holding the Sprite close to me as if were a shield instead of just a can. Tess giggled as she looked behind her shoulder to make sure her audience was still with her.

"I have something to give you."

I didn't respond when Tess pulled out what appeared to be a stapled packet of pink papers. The packet was extremely thick – fifty-seven pages to be precise. Tess waved the packet in front of my face before holding it out for me to grab. When I reached out to take hold of the packet, Tess _accidentally_ dropped it on the floor. I bent down to pick the packet up, placing my unopened Sprite down next to me.

"_We Hate Mitchie Torres Petition"_ was scribbled on top of the paper in Tess's handwriting. A tight knot started to form at the back of my throat and my hands started to shake nervously. Tess continued to stand in front of me, the student body and her laughing, as my eyes landed on the first signature. To my surprise, the first signature was not Tess's.

It was Sierra's.

The familiar penmanship of my former best friend confirmed this. The page became blurry as I continued to read the names of my classmates and people that I didn't even know. Tess was second, Ella was third. I started to stand up when I flipped to the next page to see only more signatures.

Then a cold liquid hit the top of my head. I gasped and glanced up to see Tess with my now open Sprite can tilted towards me. She continued to pour the soda on me as the students doubled in laughter. She shook the last bit of drops on the top of my head before throwing the soda can on the floor with an echoing thud.

"Let's go girls. We have a Connect 3 concert to attend," Tess scoffed as she flicked her short blonde hair over her shoulder, "Mitchie, you might want to clean your mess up. I know you can't do much about your face, but at least get the soda off the floor."

Tess's harsh words continued to repeat in my mind as she walked away. A strong self-hatred developed. My heart felt like it had been torn into a million pieces and that a special part of me was taken away because of her malice.

Although Tess left, some students remained to laugh or simply stare at me. I didn't stay much longer after Ms. Popularity was gone. I booked it out of the school, sobbing intensely as I ran home. My knees were weak as my body racked with sobs. I remember tripping over the pitcher's mound as I ran through the school's baseball field. I was a complete wreck.

My mother unfortunately was home when I opened the front door to my house. She stared at me in horror as she took in her tear-streaked face, bloody-kneed daughter who smelled like soda. "What happened to you?" My mother, Connie, managed to spit out as she walked towards me. As soon as she placed her hand on my shoulder, I shook it off.

"It's nothing, mom. I tripped on the soccer field and they were watering the field at the time. That's why I'm all wet," I lied, already making my way up the stairs, "I don't feel like talking much right now."

I didn't feel like living right then either, but I didn't have much of a choice.

"Sweetie, please come here," Connie insisted, but I ignored her. I made my way into the bathroom to clean myself off. That's all I wanted to do. To just wash away the pain and try to forget the day's drama.

Slicing my wrists wasn't my intention.

I locked the bathroom door behind me and placed my wobbly hands on top of the bathroom counter, trying to catch my breath. I tilted my head up to look at myself in the mirror. My long bangs were glued to my sweaty forehead. Black mascara ran down my cheeks and my eyes were blotchy. My hair was frizzy and my shirt was drenched. I looked disgusting. I was revolted with myself and I could feel a headache coming on.

I opened the mirror cabinet to take some Advil. As soon as I opened the cabinet, a poorly-stored red razor immediately fell and landed on top of my hand. I gritted my teeth together as the razor landed and cut the top of my hand. I took the razor off my hand and threw it across the bathroom, far away from me. I was already suffering from emotional turmoil; I didn't need physical pain added to the list.

_Stupid cut, _I thought angrily_. _I grabbed a bandage from the cabinet and placed the plain brown bandage on top of my hand to cover the cut. I concentrated on the small pain in my hand instead of Tess and her cruel mockery. The drama at school was pushed to the back of my mind as I continued to stare at the bandage that was now spotted with blood.

It took a few minutes for me to realize what twisted pleasure the cut actually brought. The emotional pain and Tess's bitter words were lost during the three minutes that passed while I tended my hand. The physical pain didn't add to the emotional pain

It subtracted it.

I shut the mirror to look at my reflection once again. I didn't know who I was staring at anymore. All I knew was that it was not the bright smiling girl I used to know and be. I felt warm tears start to build up as I studied my disoriented face. It was a mess that could not be cleaned up – just as Tess said.

I let out a pathetic cry as I twisted my pale hand in my sticky brown hair. I needed someone to be here and I felt like I had nobody. I couldn't talk to my mom about what an embarrassment I was to the family. I was supposed to be their perfect child. My mother wouldn't understand if she found out that I was friendless and in need of emotional support. Mary was in Manhattan and Sierra hated me.

I glanced at the bathtub when something shiny caught the corner of my eye. I turned my head to glance at the red razor. The razor promised love to help with my emotional heartbreak. I stumbled towards the bathtub and took a seat on the edge of it.

That's when my habit started. A habit that I didn't have any intentions to break; a habit that is now an addiction.

The number of cuts grew as the days passed by. When a month passed, I was cutting at least four times a day. I hid my cuts by wearing long sleeves, bracelets, or jackets although summer time was approaching. Sometimes I covered my cuts with my foundation. My disguises hid my obsession. Although my cuts weren't seen by others, they were always there for me. In a twisted way, it was like having a new friend.

My cuts went a month and a week unnoticed. My mother was the first one to see them. Unbeknownst to me, she had come home early from work one Saturday and I was not wearing my bracelets off since I was doing the dishes. I was wearing a long-sleeve black t-shirt but four deep gashes could still be seen on my left wrist. My mom immediately asked how the cuts appeared on my wrist.

I lied and told her they were from the gummy bracelets I had been wearing. She believed me and didn't mention the cuts again. Two weeks went by and then she saw my cuts again. The four deep gashes had doubled and I stupidly tried to convince her with the same gummy bracelet story. This time though, she didn't believe me. I remember fighting against her as she rolled my sleeve up. My mother's eyes started to tear up as she called out for my father.

"Steve! Get in here and come look at your daughter!" Connie screamed. I put more effort into getting out of my mother's hold then, but she was stronger than I was. My dad ran into the room and his eyes grew wide as he stared down at my wrist.

"M-Mitchie?!" My father choked out, his eyes wide in shock. The look of disappointment and hurt on my father's face made me desperate to get away and just disappear.

"We need to get her help, Steven!"

And so, here I am at this monotonous crisis center. My parents first tried to take me to low-key therapy, but I usually refused to go. I did not want help, and I did not want to listen to someone who didn't have a clue what I was going through. If my parents managed to get me to the therapy session, I would simply sit there in silence the whole time. After two weeks of complete silence, the therapist told my parents that I might need even more help.

So my parents lied and told me I would be visiting my grandmother because they thought I needed to have a small vacation. School ended three days before and I didn't mind paying the visit to my grandmother. My parents were irritating me and I wanted to break away. I realized my parents were not only bothersome, but that they were also traitors – especially as they drove up to Lakeview Crisis Center.

The rest is history. My days here are boring – despite the fun-filled activities the counselors try to set up for us. Although I am not allowed to have my lucky razor here with me, I still find ways to cut. The counselors are to the point where they almost have everything out of my small room, but I have kept certain objects hidden. Even though the counselors were stupid when it came to me hiding things, they were smart enough to notice that I wasn't getting better.

That's why they continued to keep me here, a month and a half later.

I let out a sigh and watch as my bangs levitated in the air for a moment before landing back on my forehead. The door opens and a pretty blonde counselor comes in. She smiles as she walks over towards me and sits across me, "Hello Mitchie. How are you today?" she asks nicely, begging me with her eyes to talk.

I blink at her before turning my head away from her.

"Mitchie, come on. You don't have to be like that."

Yes, I do.

XXXXX

(_Shane_)

A pretty woman in her mid-twenties sat in a black office chair as she typed away on her Apple computer. Her thick brown hair was held back with a huge red hair clip and her sapphire blues popped out with the black mascara layered on her eyelashes. She wore a black jacket, a shiny red camisole, and black pants that covered her long legs with black flats. Her eyes glanced down at the clock to see that it was almost two in the afternoon. Connect Three would be in her office any minute.

"Will you let me go?" The secretary looked up to see an agitated Shane Gray fighting his way out of band mates' arms. Nate rolled his eyes as he let the frustrated pop-star go, while Jason waved at the seated secretary.

"Hello Audrey," Jason greeted, taking the seat towards the left. Nate already occupied the right one and Shane stood behind the middle one with his arms crossed over his chest. His lips were set into a stubborn pout as he glanced away from the trio. Nate sighed.

"Will you sit down?" Nate asked, exasperated. Shane sighed after a moment and sprawled himself in the center chair.

Audrey smiled at Shane's behavior, "Hello Shane."

"Can we just cut to business already?" Shane asked rudely, not wanting to be in the office at all. Audrey, who was used to Shane's behavior, didn't falter.

"Your record company suggested a few things to clear your bad boy reputation, Shane," The secretary started to explain as she opened a file cabinet and sorted through the numerous amounts of folders. It only took her a couple of seconds to find the one she was looking for. Audrey set the beige folder on top of her cherry wood desk, "but I found this one to be the best."

Shane snatched the folder off the desk and flipped it open. Nate and Jason peered over the dark, shaggy-haired boy's shoulder to see a picture of a teenage girl. She had long, chestnut colored hair with bangs and dark brown eyes. Her facial expression was a blank one – a smile unfound. There was a small biography section under the photo that informed the boy band that her name was Mitchie Torres.

"What's the point of showing me this?" Shane asked, who couldn't help but give the mesmerizing girl one more glance before closing the folder and throwing it back on the desk. He didn't feel like taking the time to get to know a complete stranger.

"You might want to keep that, Shane. She's your new project, so to speak," Audrey said as she started signing paperwork for the record company and Shane Gray, "Her name is Mitchie Torres and she's stationed at Lakeview Crisis Center."

"You're giving me a mental case?" Shane asked dryly. Jason smacked Shane upside the head and Shane turned to glare at the oldest member of the boy band.

"_Be nice_," Jason nearly growled. Shane turned away from his sensitive band mate.

"Shane, you are to help Mitchie out. You are both in desperate need for a friend," When Shane pointed to his two band mates, Audrey shook her head, "besides the two guys who are basically your brothers. You are to befriend Mitchie, and you will not have any special treatment or privileges until you do so."

"No special treatment?" Shane asked in disbelief. He took in a deep breath as he held up his hand, "You're basically saying that Connect 3 is a Connect 2 until that mental case- OW!" Shane felt two hands smack the back of his hand that time, "is my friend?"

Audrey grinned at the pop star, "Basically. Clean your act up Gray and make a friend. It shouldn't be too hard."

Shane glanced away from his secretary to look at Jason and then at Nate, "You two are actually letting the record company go through with this?"

"Yep!" Jason said happily, standing up and making his way towards the office door. Nate placed a hand on Shane's shoulder as he also stood up.

"It's good PR. So do your time and get to know her. You never know, she might like our music," Nate said, taking his hand off Shane's shoulder and waving goodbye towards Audrey. She returned the wave before setting her eyes back on Shane.

"That's not a selling point," Shane argued to Nate, standing up to follow his two friends out. He was a foot out of the door when he heard Audrey sing-song his name. Shane turned, an aggravation expression on his face.

"_What_?"

Audrey didn't answer the pop star as she held the beige folder out towards him. Shane muttered a colorful word under his breath as he walked back into the office and took the folder out of the young woman's hands.

"Have fun," Audrey teased as Shane made his way back out of her office.

Fun with a mental case? Yeah right.

---

END OF CHAPTER 1

So, there's the first chapter. I told you it was pretty dark. What will happen? You guys are gonna have to wait and see! I hope you enjoyed it… somehow. Haha.

Questions you might have (and I'll answer the ones you guys have in reviews in PM if it is needed at the time):

Q: Is Mary based off Selena's character in Another Cinderella Story?

A: Yep! I wanted Selena in the fic so I decided to use that story. She may make an appearance later on, so watch out!

Q: Some lines seem familiar, what's the explanation?

A: I sorta pulled lines from Camp Rock and Selena's/Demi's videos to capture the character right. I just twisted the lines around to fit the story. Some examples were Demi's explanation for liking the color red and Nate's "It's good PR. So do your time…" line.

Q: How will Shane and Mitchie develop a relationship if she doesn't speak?

A: We'll you're going to have to wait and see!

REVIEW and tell me what you are thinking, please?


	2. Beautiful Disaster

Sorry Sorry Sorry. College consumes my life! I'll try to update soon, but no promises!

Thank You To (For Reviews): mymakeupsmearedeyes, Courty-Court, Aubree, monko25, StephDY, IWantAnWerewolfToImprintMe, brasilgal, sk8tergrl700, White Wave Warrior, .Hale

Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with Camp Rock. Thought it would be pretty sweet to own Demi's voice, haha.

Cookie Cutter

By: Chibi Neko-Chan2

"Talking"

_Thoughts_

_**Emphasis**_

Writing

(*#) –Author's Note, found at end of chapter.

-Demi-

It was a beautiful day outside. The sky was painted a light blue and I could only spot one faraway white cloud. The weather was warm, but a cool breeze kept it from being humid. I tilted my head to the side, closing my eyes briefly as I let the wind gently kiss my skin. A small smile formed on my lips when the thought of my razor blade's sweet kiss filled me.

How I wish I was in my temporary room right now instead of in this crowded nursery of these ill-conceived teenagers. God, I hated everyone in here. There wasn't one doctor, advisor, or psychotic individual that was worth talking to (not that I was so keen of that idea, anyway). I opened my eyes, and I could just picture the disappointment filled in them as I turned to look out the barred up window again.

The last time I had been outside was almost two months ago, when my deceiving parents forced me into this center. I didn't think about how much I would miss something so simple until it was taken away from me. You could compare it to missing chocolate when you go through lent. It's right in front of you, but you can't obtain it.

I was in the process of turning back to the activity the counselors set up for us, but a blur caught my eye. I refocused on the window, to see a blue jay pass by the window. The bird's wings were extended fully outward as they flapped quickly in the air. It was difficult to decipher the rest of the bird because the steel bars in the windows ran horizontally and vertically, greatly impairing my vision. The rusted bars glared at me, just like everyone else in the room, as I watched the blue jay fly away.

The barred-up windows, which were put in when the institution opened, were not meant to keep the outside world from coming in. It was meant to keep us 'criminals' in, to keep us safe and to keep us from committing suicide.

Shame.

I lowered my eyes to the lyrics I scribbled down earlier. Everyone else was drawing, but I was banned from that activity after the repetition of grotesque pictures I produced. The therapists told me that my pictures of people hanging their selves or blood seeping from people's eye sockets were negatively affecting the majority of my peers. They told me that we were all here to be 'healed', and that by drawing disturbing pictures, the patients wouldn't accomplish that.

I didn't want to break it to them, but we would never be healed. At least, I wouldn't because I didn't believe I needed to be.

The counselors desperately needed to learn that you can't lead a horse to water, and that you sure as hell can't lead a cutter away from her razor blade.

Since I was banned to draw, the therapists suggested creative writing. I didn't see how my writing could be any safer than my drawings, but I assumed it was because you would actually have to read my material to get the dark essence instead of simply staring at it. Out of my options, I decided to go back to writing lyrics, since it was the other outlet I used if my cuts were still fresh. My passion for music was also a bonus factor.

It's too quiet in here, I wanna disappear. I'm hearing myself thinking too clear. It's too quiet in here…

I picked up my pencil and brought it up close to my eyes.

I wonder how easy it would be to get lead poisoning.

--- Shane ---

I kicked the seat in front of me out of frustration as my driver directed the limo up the hill Lakeview Crisis Center settled on top of. I didn't care that I was acting childishly. In fact, all I cared about was how much I _**didn't**_ want to be here. Just by staring up at the massive white building, I could already tell I would hate this place. I would hate the staff, the 'fun-filled' activities the counselors set up, and I would hate her.

My mental case.

I wouldn't be surprised if meeting me was some wacked up plan of hers, anyway. I mean, this girl was a real lunatic (hence the reason why she's in this place). I bet my Bed Head hair product that she was so depressed that the Connect 3 concert was sold out and that she would never have the opportunity to meet the guys and I, that she came up with this idea since she knew, as well as everyone else, that I needed to clear up my name. The loony knew it needed to be something big, so she decided to hack up her wrists in such a horrific way that my secretary would have had to find out from her best friend, a social worker.

Knowing that I was possibly here because of this screwed up intention made me dislike her even more.

This girl didn't even have an inkling of who she was messing with. I am Shane Gray, for crying out loud.

I crossed my arms over my chest, glaring out of the tinted window as pride washed over my body. Did she know I could sue her for proclaiming false statements? This girl was an actress and I knew better to believe that she was a truly ill. My mental case was just doing it for attention.

I sat, brooding as I waited for my door to open so I can make my entrance. Shane Gray never went anywhere without making an entrance.

When the door didn't open, I let my narrowed eyes flicker towards the driver. He was nervously looking up at me and I smiled menacingly up at him in the review mirror.

"Well, are you going to do your job and open the door or am I going to have to fire you?" I asked, my teeth nearly grinding together in anger. I was already in a foul mood with my mental case, so this driver better be wise and do whatever I say.

I didn't smile when the door opened a couple of seconds later. Instead, I pulled my favorite pair of Ray Bans over my eyes and ran my hands through my hair, making sure perfection stayed excellence. I then climbed out of the car, a frown forming when I realized that I would be stuck at this place for six hours…

And that was only today.

I gave my window driver a careless wave before walking up the steps of the crisis center. I halted momentarily when I spotted a lilac sheet taped to the door. I squinted as I read the bold words printed on the piece of paper. It stated that all guests should please use the back door to enter, since the entrance door was freshly painted.

I rolled my eyes, completely ignoring the notification as I placed my hand on the doorknob. I wasn't about to walk for another two minutes to get to the same place. The doorknob, fortunately, was dry as I stepped into the center. I casually swung the door shut behind me and I didn't bother to take off my Ray Bans when the women at the front desk stared at me in shock.

I know that I'm a pretty big deal, but come on. These ladies were informed earlier this week that I would be coming today, so you would think that they would have had a way to conceal their true emotions when I walked through the door.

Obviously not.

"Shane Gray?" One of the women asked, and for a moment, I think her attention was focused on the door instead of me. I could imagine how hard that must have been.

"Duh," I responded, my voice holding no excitement at all because I wasn't. Like I said, I didn't want to be here at this stupid place where I was trying to cure some crazed fan.

"Follow me please."

I decided to keep the smart comment that crossed my mind to myself as I followed the older woman in front of me. She smelled heavily of rich perfume and there was more gray in her hair than blonde. She needed to see a stylist, badly.

My shoulders hunched in tension when I heard a scream from down the hall to my left. I stared at the lady in front of me with a raised eyebrow, but she ignored me as she lifted a walky-talky up to her lips. I wasn't able to catch what she murmured before she started to direct me to my destination again.

"Mitchie is finishing up her activity session. You two will be moved to a more private area when the session is over," The lady, did I mention she really needed her hair done?, informed me as she opened the door. I stepped forward, pushing my sunglasses up to my forehead with my index finger as I scanned the room for my mental case.

It didn't take me long to find her. I had studied her picture for a moment earlier this morning, and her melancholy face was still etched into my mind. I, however, had to say the picture didn't give the brunette in front of me justice.

She was even more of a train wreck than I had imagined.

Her dark brown hair was piled in a messy ponytail on top of her head, and there were yellow bags under her eyes due to lack of sleep. She was dressed in a black and red plaid shirt and her left sleeve was slightly rolled up, revealing deep crimson gashes against her pale skin. My heart almost bled for her due to her lack of color.

I watched silently as the lady from earlier walked up to… Michelle? Wait, she liked being called Mitchie…. and she placed her hand on Mitchie's shoulder. I saw loony's shoulder rise nervously, so I guessed she wasn't comfortable with the counselors here.

"Mitchie dear, the young man we told you about earlier is here to see you. Remember Shane Gray?" My eyes didn't stray from Mitchie's face as I watched for her reaction. Of course she remembered Shane Gray! What kind of dumb question was that? My mental case was going to lift her eyes to my face and only give me a look of complete infatuation if she was able to control herself.

Mitchie, however, gave me a reaction I wasn't expecting. I felt my face crumble in frustration as I watched the young girl place her elbow on the table and her chin in her upturned hand. She turned away from her counselor, completely ignoring her and completely ignoring me.

She didn't even _**glance **_my way. This girl must really be from planet psycho!

"Mitchie, is that the way we treat our guests?" The women asked kindly, her tone reminding me of an adult talking to a three year old instead of one that was sixteen.

Mitchie didn't do anything, she simply continued to stare out the window… correction: the barred up window… as if she didn't hear her. The women sighed before looking towards me and shrugging. She then made her way back over to where I was standing.

"A word has never left her mouth as soon as she stepped into this place almost two months ago. So, good luck with keeping up conversation," the lady said. She informed me that she would be back in two hours with our lunch before she left me alone with my mental case.

I didn't look at the other patients, although I could feel their eyes on me. I wasn't here for them, although I couldn't really say I was here for Mitchie. I continued to stay where I was standing for another five minutes, hoping that she would give in and look where I was standing.

I felt a tinge of anger when her eyes never left the window. I was angry because I knew I was starting to care as to why Mitchie wouldn't look at me. For the first time in a long time, I wanted someone to look at me and it was pissing me off that I wasn't getting what I wanted.

I wasn't use to that.

After taking a few steps forward, I grabbed the chair across from Mitchie and pulled it back. I proceeded to sprawl into the chair as my eyes studied her face. Her dark brown eyes were still focused on the damn window, and I noticed how long her eyelashes really were. She had a cleft chin and her dark eyebrows were slightly arched.

I didn't know disasters could be so beautiful until then.

"…Hi," I said finally, knowing for a fact that she wouldn't be the conversation starter. I could feel my breathing slow as I waited for the natural disaster to turn her head towards me.

She never did.

"I said hi," I repeated. When she didn't do anything, I wondered if maybe my mental case never responded because she was deaf too.

Well, only way to test that out.

"Mitchie Torres, take your head out of your ass and look at me," I demanded and I admit, I got a little scared when her head snapped in my direction. Her chestnut brown eyes danced with anger as she glared across the table at me.

I didn't need to her to say anything right then, because it was clear from her expression that she was saying 'and who in the hell do you think you are?'

"I'm Shane Gray, your new best friend," I greeted, the sarcasm in my tone so heavy that you could have added another s in the 'asm' part, take out the beginning and m, and call me what it spelt. (*1)

Mitchie didn't bother to take her narrowed eyes off of me as her hands found the piece of parchment she had been scribbling… were those lyrics?... on. She placed the pen in her hand before taking her eyes off of me. She scribbled something quickly down before shoving it in my direction.

I normally don't do this, but you pissed me off enough to respond to you. I don't have friends, so leave me the hell alone.

"No can do, princess," I responded, shoving the piece of paper back in her direction. She lifted a dark eyebrow at me before writing her response. She pushed the piece of parchment in my direction, a smirk on her face as she did so.

You have the audacity to call me a princess? Look at you.  She had written.

"Whatever," I spat before continuing on, "Look. We can leave eachother alone when you finally come to your senses. I'm going to trust that you're going to get your life together soon, because you know that I have a life to live that doesn't revolve around you."

Mitchie looked at me for a whole minute before scribbling down her response.

Come to my senses?... I hope you can handle disappointment. She wrote before throwing, yes throwing, the piece of my paper in my direction. She gave me a cold stare before pushing her chair back and walking away. As she walked away, my eyes landed again on the gashes on her wrist as her arms swung furiously by her sides.

I blinked, realizing that that was the first time I _**really**_ saw her, really saw Mitchie…

And I felt like reality smacked me in the face because I, Shane Gray, had been wrong. My mental case wasn't a crazed fan; she was really suffering from an addiction.

I sighed as I ran my hands through my hair. I was in the process of closing my eyes when the writing from earlier caught my eye. It wasn't Mitchie's part of the conversation I was focusing on, but her lyrics.

It's too quiet in here. Make it all go away. Why can't we break this silence finally? 

XXXXX End Of Chapter 2!

Sorry Sorry Sorry Again. Please review and tell me you forgive me? Or at least what you think?

(*1)- it spells ass. Haha. I know it could've been confusing, so I decided to make an author's note about it.


	3. Trust Is A Naive Thing

Sorry times a trillion. I'm a very busy person and only can write when I have free time and when I'm in the mood. So, yeah. Camp Rock 2 was AMAZING.

-Shane-

Two weeks and a half later, there was still no progress with my mental case. I didn't expect myself to be a miracle worker, but damn, she was making this difficult. Mitchie refused to have anything to do with me or the facility, which quite frankly pissed me off. Here I was, wasting my days away to try to help this hopeless wastebasket and she was acting like my useless visits were my own decision. I could have been on the road, traveling and playing with Nate and Jason, but no, I had to clear up my so-called bad boy reputation. I didn't see how clearing this girl from her gross habit would make me a better person or clear my name, but my assistant wouldn't hear it. I was stuck here as much as Mitchie was, and we both despised that fact with a passion. She just wanted to cut and I just wanted to get out.

People say it's not healthy to hold grudges. Well, I don't care about people say. I could blame Mitchie all I wanted to, although she almost loathed me being around as much as I did her. She frequently tried to pretend that I wasn't in her presence, which I told her was impossible to do. I am Shane Gray, after all. I, however, would get some nasty words or smart remarks on paper if I ended up pushing enough of her buttons. I wondered why Mitchie didn't talk out loud. The nurses claimed that she wasn't mute, and was just being stubborn. I shrugged, thinking that she probably didn't open her mouth because she didn't have any friends to converse with in the first place.

There was a small part of me that was curious to hear what Mitche's voice sounded like. Would it be dark and deep, just like the impression she set around herself? Or would it contrast with her gloomy looks and attitude, being bright and cheery? I felt my head shake slighty from left to right. Although I barely knew Mitchie because she was too damn obstinate to let me figure her out, I didn't think a high and pitchy or dark vaderish voice would flow from her lips.

I wasn't sure why I was suddenly so curious about her voice. I figured it was the musician in me, so I decided to make it a small goal to hear my mental case's voice one day. Unfortunately, it didn't seem like I was going anywhere in a while anyway. With Mitchie, it wasn't one step forward, two steps back. It was no progress forward, and three wrist gashes back.

I shifted my posture slightly in my chair, stuffing my hands in my pockets as I let my dark eyes study the sick girl in front of me. We were on a thirty minute break right now, and Mitchie had a tendency to spend her breaks looking longingly out the barred-up windows. It was the middle of summer, but there was a rain-storm today. The dark clouds matched the dark gray of her long-sleeve shirt.

"You know Mitchie…" She didn't look at me when I said her name, but she was half-way decent by arching an eyebrow to let her know she was listening. I leaned in closer to the table, lowering my voice as I continued, "You could always pretend to get better. Stop cutting just for a small while, get out of here, and then hack up your wrists all you want. Then we can both – well, just me actually- can be back where we belong."

Mitchie dropped her gaze from the window and turned her head in my direction. She had a bored expression on her face, and I had a feeling she was thinking I was an idiot. She sighed as she reached in her pocket and pulled out her writing pad.

So now she didn't only talk to me when she was pissed at me, but also when she thought I was dumb as a rock. At least it was some small progress.

After writing for about a minute, she slid the writing pad and pen in my direction.

It read, 'You have no idea what you're saying. It isn't that easy and you, out of all people, will never understand my struggle. '

"That's because you're not giving me the chance to," I shot back, and I saw the corner of her lip twitch in surprise at my words. She looked away from me then, and I wondered if I had hurt the girl's feelings. I wanted to say I didn't care and the truth hurts, but a miniscule part of me did.

-Mitchie-

How dare he. The things that left this guy's mouth were unbelievable. 'You're not giving me the chance too', are you kidding me? All the guy cares about is his damn self, hence why he suggested that I can pretend 'to get better'. Did he think I hadn't thought or even tried that before? Twenty-four hours is hard without cutting, and I feel myself slowly being suffocated until I have that hot sense of relief wash over my skin. I tried covering it up with foundation, but those tactics didn't work in this place. The doctors weren't as completely brainless as I liked to believe, at least when it came to releasing people. I couldn't convince them, especially since they still think I'm in denial over the fact that I don't need help.

I glanced at popstar boy, wishing the doctors would realize that the boy wasn't helping me. In fact, he was only irritating me. If I wasn't trying to find a way to cut, I found myself thinking about how caught up in his own world the conceited boy was. What mattered most to the boy was himself, so it would have been pointless to try to give the boy a chance even if he asked for one. The only cutting he was interested in was a final cut of his music video, not the scars on my wrist.

So when Mrs. Dee came in to let us know we would be doing a trust activity in two minutes, I refused to move from my seat. I don't associate myself with the word 'trust.' Lack of trust and lies is what landed in me here. Deception and mistrust is what I knew and what filled me. How was I to perform in a 'trust' activity if I didn't have any at all?

"Mitchie," Mrs. Dee's patient voice broke through my thoughts. From the corner of my eye, I could see that Shane had gotten up from his seat and was now standing beside her, "You know it's a requirement for all youth members to participate in the activity. I would hate to call Dr. Lewis and tell him to pay you a visit if you don't join us."

I shot a glare Mrs. Dee's direction as I slowly got out of my chair. Dr. Lewis was one of the reasons why I was still stuck in this hell-hole, and I tried to avoid him like the plague. Not only did he like to touch my cuts in a creepy, gentle way while he 'counseled' me, but he was the one who made sure my room had a constant eye on it. Mrs. Dee sent me a warm smile before leading big-head and I to the activity room. I could feel his dark eyes on my face, trying to read what I was thinking. The thought of him being concerned over something other than his reflection was nearly laughable.

As the three of us made our way to the activity room, I let my mind wonder back to how I was going to find a way to cut after the session. I still had the broken mirror compact hidden underneath my bed, which I got from a girl named Jordyn when a therapist gave her the compact (unbroken, of course) to work on obtaining a positive self-image. Jordyn was here because of an eating disorder and was as thin as the staircase rail I was momentarily touching. Once Popstar boy, Dee, and I reached the lower level, we took a hard turn right and made our way into hell's lair.

The activity room we walked into was painted a lilac purple, trying to set a mood of calmness for all the panic-ridden patients standing in a circle in the center of the room. Their heads turned toward the door as we walked in and I stopped in my tracks, wanting immediately to just go to my room and be alone. When I paused, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder and a light push. I turned to shoot a glare at whoever was touching me, and it was Mr. Self-centered. He rolled his eyes at my expression before giving me another light push.

"You can't quit before you even start," He told me as we walked and I scoffed. How in the hell did he have any right to be lecturing me about quitting? He was here to 'help' me, and he didn't exactly come in free willingly. He didn't want anything to do with me.

'It's because you're not giving me the chance to.' His obnoxious voice replayed in my head as I took a spot in the circle. Shane was advised to stand about a couple feet behind me, and I couldn't shake the feeling of his eyes on me. I felt like giving him the finger, knowing that he would rather be staring into his own reflection and admiring himself.

"Alright. So this activity is called 'Catch me, Catch you.' The person behind you is going to state why you should trust them, and when you feel comfortable enough with what they say, you allow yourself to fall into your partner's arms. Understood?"

Well, it looked like I would be standing here all day.

Shane is the last person I would put my trust into and I knew it wasn't beyond him to pull a stunt where he would 'pretend' to catch me and then let me hit the floor 'on accident.' I crossed my arms then, not satisfied with this stupid exercise at all. The first group was the eating disorder girl and bulimic boy, gee what a pair, and his frail arms barely got the paper-thin girl as she fell into his arms. They smiled at eachother before the girl stood up and gave the boy a hug.

So not going to happen between Shane and I.

I let my mind wonder back to broken compact case, wondering what I would do to my arms today. I wasn't nicknamed Cookie Cutter Torres for nothing. Perhaps I would carve the word trust into my arm, since the only person in the world I could trust in this world was myself. It would be a frequent reminder that trust was only for naïve people. Naïve people trusted and then got landed into medical centers. Naïve people would allow themselves to do this stupid activity.

"Great job Cheryl and David. Now for Mitchie and Shane…"

Arms still crossed, I refused to look behind me. Shane probably didn't want to participate in this activity as much as I didn't. Could he even gather up enough words that applied to him when it came to trusting? Probably not. Hot-headed, ignorant… those were the type of words that he could rattle on about himself.

"Shane…"

"Mitchie…" I cursed myself when I felt my blood run a little cold when he said my name. How could someone I loathed have such an effect on me at the same time?, "Mitchie should trust me because I'm Shane Gray."

Oh yeah, that said a lot. I almost laughed; the poor instructor didn't even know what she was getting herself into.

"Can you think of any other reasons Shane?" She asked him, and then there was a pregnant pause. Was Shane seriously contemplating the question?

"She should… trust me… because I can relate to how she feels. Trapped here, feeling as if no one is listening to her… but uh… so I just want her to know that she isn't alone," I could feel my tense shoulders start to sag as I took in his words. It felt like a brick had just landed in the middle of my stomach. Where in the world was this coming from? Was it humanly possible that Shane was being sincere? I shook my head slightly, disappointed in myself for letting me listen to him. I had to remember trust was for naïve people.

"And…" Oh god, he wasn't finished? I bit down on my lip apprehensively, feeling my anxiety starting to pick up. Everyone was studying me now, and I couldn't take the pressure. I couldn't take the lies that were flowing from his lips. I had to get out of here, fast. I had to get out of here before his words got stuck in my head. Before they started to have an effect on me, just like the way he said my name.

"I want her to know that even though we're not friends by any means, I lied when I said I didn't care if she hacked up her wrists," I heard the instructor gasp as his words and Shane told her to 'chill', "Anyway …I'm being honest when I say the last thing I want Mitchie to do is injure herself," He stated. I quickly turned to look at him, my unbelieving eyes studying the depth in his dark brown ones. He had a solemn look on his face, and the fact that it was so serious frightened me.

That's when I ran for it. When things got tough, I ran or cut away. Since I wasn't able to cut at the moment, I fled. Ms. Dee was yelling to me to stop and I heard her talk in her walkie-talkie before I was out the door. Personnel started to flood the halls as soon as I left the room, and I quickly made my way up the stairs before any of them could get me. Although my room was where I wanted to be, I knew that this little act of 'disobedience' would land me to have 'a talk' with Dr. Lewis. I had to avoid the obvious places right now.

Running down one of the only empty halls I could find, I quickly threw myself into the cleaning/janitor's room before anyone had a chance to see where I went. I placed my heaving back up against the wall, trying to remain quiet as I heard staff members run by. I had to urge to cry right then, from relief or something else I didn't know.

Letting myself slide onto the floor, I glanced around the room with my glossy vision.

I needed to let out these torrent of emotions and all I could see was a mop, a bucket, and a broom, which didn't do me a damn bit of good. Choking back a sob, I felt confused and not at home with myself. As much as I wanted to deny it, I knew I was starting to become attached to Stupid Shane Gray. Not because we had the same interests or anything (we barely talked and argued mostly when I did decide to write to him), but I knew I was starting to become attached to his presence. What would I become attached to next? After the surprise of word choice that he just shared, I didn't want to know.

My eyes caught the end of the broom dust pin, and I let out a sigh of relief when I realized that the end of the pin was a bit jagged. Crawling over to the broom, I grabbed the dust pin off and placed it in front of me. I hurriedly moved my sleeve up to my elbow, revealing the dark red and white cut lines that covered my forearm and wrist. I placed the jagged part of the dust pin to my skin, not caring how dirty it was. I just needed to cut.

I successfully made two deep cuts before I heard the door open. I choked back a gasp when I saw the guy I had wanted to avoid quickly shake his head and shut the door behind him. If I talked, I would have questioned him on how he found me or better yet, why he even wanted to.

"I run from the paparazzi how many times a week? Really Mitchie, give me a brea-" His words cut off when he saw my wrists; I quickly placed the dust pin down and went to pull my rolled-up sleeve down to cover the evidence. He walked towards me then, grabbing something white off the shelf. After he sat down directly across from me, he placed the white box down. It was a first-aid kit. How ironic that it would be in a janitor's closet.

"Give me your arm," He stated, and I shook my head as I hugged my arm to me. I didn't want anyone, especially him or Dr. Lewis, near me or touching me. I could only trust myself. Shane let out an irritated sigh, and I could tell he was trying to calm himself down before attempting to speak to me again.

"Mitchie, please. Let me treat your arm. I won't tell anyone about you cutting if you just let me clean the cuts," Shane insisted, and the panic in me heightened at making a decision. Shane had seen my cuts from a distance before, but this would be more personal and more intimate. Then again, I didn't want him to run his big mouth and then I would have to suffer a longer time with Dr. Lewis for my actions. So, although every part of me was screaming in protest, I let my guard down and slowly gave him my arm.

Shane pulled up the sleeve gently, and I was astounded by his concern of not hurting me. It was weird how he could say such spiteful things so easily and then show random acts of care like this. I felt my heart twist when my arm was finally exposed, feeling very small under his stare. His eyes lingered on my cuts before he looked up at me.

"God Mitchie, what have you been through?" He asked softly, but of course I didn't answer him. He quickly opened the first aid kid and got out the small bottle of peroxide. God, this was going to sting. I bit down on my lip as he took my wrist in the hand that wasn't holding the peroxide.

He slowly poured the peroxide on my cuts, and I immediately bit down on my lip. It burned like hell. I squeezed my eyes shut, and I could feel the tears from earlier seep through. I could feel Shane dabbing my cuts softly with a cloth to dry the cleaned cuts. He then slowly covered my arm with my sleeve again. When I thought he would just get up and go then, he took my hand and helped me stand up on my wobbly legs.

I was unable to concentrate since so many thoughts and questions were running through my head. The room was silent, but then Shane decided to break the silence.

"I normally don't do this for girls, but I'm going to start taking this whole 'helping you' thing seriously because you really do need it," I didn't look at him as he stated this but he didn't seem to mind since he continued, "So I'm going to ask you to finish crying, because that's better than taking it out on your wrists."

I don't know how that triggered the tears to come out, but it did. The last time I had cried in front of anyone was my mom, when she found out about my cuts and had called for my dad. I started to shake my head back and forth slowly, trying to shake the thought out of my head. It was just a constant reminder of how much of a disappointment I turned out to be.

I felt a slight tug of my hand and then my face was pressed softly against Shane's chest. God, it was the last place I wanted to be but it also felt like it was the first place I wanted to be also. I let out a sob then, so confused with my feelings and with the way he was acting. He didn't hold me against him, but he was managing to tenderly rub smooth circles in the middle of my back to help me calm down.

I'm not sure how long I cried and I wasn't sure how much Shane truly cared about my problem. I now wasn't sure how naïve trusting really was, and I also wasn't sure about the feelings that were developing inside of me.

But I did know one thing:

That Shane could be as comforting as the razor-blade when he wanted to be.

And that scared the living hell out of me.

-END OF CHAPTER.

Again sorry this took forever to get up. I'm also sorry if it seems kinda rushed, but I needed that one moment that would make Mitchie think 'Hmm, maybe Shane isn't so bad' so I can get her to start trusting him/forming a bond with him. You think this is okay? Any recommendations? Not sure what I'm going to do next with this, but I do need them to start bonding.

SMITCHIE/JEMI forever :D. I was devastated when they broke up =[.

Please Review :D.


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